


Riveted

by Fríálfurinn (DangerousCommieSubversive)



Series: The Role-Swap AU [1]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Breaking and Entering, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Glanni and Íþró are mentioned, Hypothermia, M/M, Superheroes, leave me here to die, look it's cute and I am descending into shipping hell, with one arm around a hot elf and the other one around this ludicrous stripey man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 17:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8905825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/Fr%C3%AD%C3%A1lfurinn
Summary: The new guy in town is an exhausting menace to human life, and he's going to run Robbie Rivet into the ground. It was already difficult enough chasing after five children on minimal sleep; now he has to keep them from injuring themselves trying to copy dangerous stunts too?Meanwhile, Sportacus is just trying to have a good time, and the local mechanic, of all people, keeps trying to ruin all of his fun. Everyone else thinks he's impressive, why not this nerd?Obviously this is a recipe for disaster, but mostly the good kind.   Based on Nico's amazing role-swap AU





	1. Housebreakers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nico CrystalCaper](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Nico+CrystalCaper).



> Like I said, this story is for [Nico](https://crystal-caper.tumblr.com/)\--your enjoyment of this weird kid's show got _me_ excited to watch it, and it has made my life and mood immeasurably better. Your beautiful art, amazing ideas, and generally boundless enthusiasm are both an inspiration and a joy, and I hope this story in its entirety makes you smile as much as the fragments of it did.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the old story. There's one guy, who's sort of a superhero, but he's exhausted all the time and has trouble keeping up. And there's another guy, who's kind of a supervillain, except that he's not really evil, he's just sort of a pain-in-the-neck jock. And they love to break into each other's houses.

Robbie Rivet jolted upright in his chair, startled awake by something that he couldn’t immediately determine. There weren’t any alarms going off. It wasn’t any colder than usual—granted, it wasn’t any _warmer_ either, but he was used to the chill. There wasn’t anything wrong with his chair, and he couldn’t feel any particular aches or pains worse than the ones he usually had.

He was about to put it down to the normal insomnia when he realized that there was _someone in his house._

“You’re disgusting, Rotten,” said Sportacus from behind the open door of the refrigerator, “you know that? With all the junk you eat you ought to have died years ago.”

“It’s _Rivet,_ ” Robbie said, knowing it was useless, and got out of his chair with some difficulty. His back crackled as he straightened up, and he winced. “How did you get into my _house?_ ”

“It’s not really very difficult. Aha, there we go, I knew you’d have some.” Sportacus straightened up with a pint of heavy whipping cream in hand and closed the refrigerator door with a thud. “You should lock your doors more securely. Or not, I don’t really care.”

“I have three different deadbolts and an electronic security system, I’m not sure how you think I _could_ make it more secure.”

“Eh, you know. Iron, maybe. You’re the nerd, you figure it out.”

Irritated, Robbie started to get properly dressed, which if nothing else kept him from staring at the muscles in Sportacus’ throat working as he drained the pint of cream in one long pull. “I thought the thing about elves and cream was a myth.”

“ _Elves_ are a myth. I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

“I’m smarter than _you._ ”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Sportacus shook himself, grinned, and tossed the empty carton over his shoulder onto the floor before doing an _entirely_ gratuitous flip over the counter. He landed in a handstand and began to do push-ups.

“Show-off.”

“That’s sort of the point.”

He was always so _cheery._ It just made him that much more unpleasant to be around. Scowling, Robbie pulled on his vest. “Anyway, _what_ are you doing in my _house?_ ”

“Technical problems with the airship. You’re going to come up and fix them.”

“And what if I don’t _want_ to? Just because I got you out of _one_ crash—”

“I don’t really see what you not _wanting_ to has anything to do with it.” Sportacus flipped to his feet and started doing jumping jacks, _absently,_ like turning into a red blur in someone’s living room was _normal._ “I _could_ just drag you there. Anyway, it’s not like I’m really excited to have _you_ around _my_ home either.”

Robbie grumbled even as he started pulling together his kit. “I don’t like heights.”

“I don’t like _you,_ but I’m living with it.”

With a frustration that had everything to do with the thought of a malfunctioning airship flying over the town (and certainly _nothing_ to do with the sight of Sportacus sliding distractedly into a split), Robbie hefted his tool case onto his shoulder and said, “All right. But only this once. And stop _doing_ that.”

* * *

 

The whole mess had started with Stephanie, the mayor’s niece.

Robbie wasn’t sure he could really _blame_ her, not entirely. She wasn’t really suited to small-town life—she was an active girl, more energetic and sociable than he’d _ever_ been. Lonely, too, in a new place far from anywhere she knew, staying with an uncle who _tried_ hard but wasn’t really suited to entertaining a child. All she’d wanted was someone to play with.

(He was _sure_ that he’d heard about her coming to stay beforehand. It had to do with her parents needing to travel for work, or being international super spies, or something like that. She was coming by train, or by airplane, or by ferry; she was going to be there for a week, or for the summer, or for the foreseeable future. The details were all very vague—Mayor Meanswell wasn’t especially clear at the best of times, and Robbie had been fixing his sink when the subject first came up, so he hadn’t been paying much attention.)

 

_“Who’s that man sleeping on the bench over there?” she asked._

_“That’s Robbie Rivet! He’s our friend! He helps us out with our homework all the time, and he’s teaching Pixel how to build robots.” Ziggy bounced cheerfully on his heels. “We try to be quiet when he’s napping.”_

_“But it’s the middle of the day! And this is the park! Shouldn’t he sleep at home?”_

_“I guess, but we don’t mind. He’s really nice. My mom says he has in-zombie-a, and that’s why sometimes he falls asleep in funny places.”_

_She frowned. “I mean, I guess if that’s just how he is…anyway, do you want to play basketball with me?”_

_“I don’t know how to play basketball.” He looked up at her hopefully. “But if you want to, you can come play video games with us, Pixel said I could have a turn with his new one.”_

_She sighed. “That’s ok.”_

 

What Robbie _wasn’t_ sure of was how she’d found an air mail tube. He supposed the mayor must have given her one, trying to cheer up his disappointed charge with tales of a superhero who hadn’t been seen in town for fifty years or more, encouraging her to write to him the way other children wrote to Santa Claus. Again, nothing he could _blame_ Milford for; in his place Robbie would probably have done much the same thing.

He’d stopped up the launcher himself, years ago, after one particularly curious boy had dropped a baseball into it and pulled the lever. Luckily it hadn’t resulted in anything more than a bloody nose and a few startled birds, but Robbie hadn’t wanted to risk anything worse.

Of course, he’d woken up just as she was pulling the lever, and could only watch in groggy puzzlement as her air mail tube shot into the sky.

 _That’s a shame,_ he remembered thinking, foolishly. _She’ll be so disappointed when she doesn’t get an answer._

 

_“Who’s **this?** ” the stranger had said._

_Trixie grinned. “That’s Robbie! He’s our friend!”_

_“Looks like a nerd to me.”_

_Robbie could feel a migraine in the offing. It hadn’t arrived yet, but it was **definitely** nearby. But no, this short, flashy (handsome) stranger was new in town, the children were here, he needed to be polite. He held out a hand. “Robbie Rivet. Nice to meet you.”_

_The stranger’s grip was crushingly hard, and he had a nasty glint in his eyes. “Sportacus.” When he let go, Robbie’s hand ached. “Hey, kids, you ever heard the sound of a baseball breaking glass?”_

_Yep. Migraine. There it was. Robbie tried to head whatever was happening off at the pass, tried to play it off like he was yawning and cracking his neck and everything was as usual. “Sounds boring.”_

_“Didn’t ask **you.** ”_

* * *

 

He could have fixed it himself.

That was the thought that kept popping into Sportacus’ head. He could have fixed the airship himself. There weren’t any _major_ problems, and if he hadn’t known how to do minor repairs then he wouldn’t have ~~hijacked~~ moved into it in the first place. He might have had to ~~steal~~ borrow Rivet’s tool kit first, but it hadn’t been necessary to haul the gangly creep himself several hundred feet into the air to do routine maintenance.

So why had he _bothered_ rousting that nerd and dragging him up here?

“Where’s that screwdriver?” Robbie said from underneath the console. “Can you hand it to me, I need to tighten this.”

Sportacus dangled the requested screwdriver half an inch from Robbie’s fingertips, entertaining himself with the other man’s useless grasping for a moment before handing it over. “I ought to keep you up here, this is the one thing you can do faster than me.”

“So you _do_ admit that you’re perfectly capable of doing this yourself.” Robbie sounded irritated, although he didn’t stop working. “This is perfectly simple maintenance work, what do you need _me_ for?”

“I’ve got better things to do. I’m training for a race, you know.”

“I don’t see why you bother, you’ve never been in bad shape in your life.”

“Of course I train, I’m going to finish that race in a quarter of the time it takes whoever’s in second. What’s the point of being best at things if you don’t rub it in?”

“Hmph. Anyway, doesn’t seem like you’ve got anything better to do if you’re just going to hover there while I’m working.”

Which was a good point, good enough that Sportacus became very angry—partially with himself, for hanging around ~~looking at Robbie’s stomach~~ making sure the nerd didn’t break anything important when he could have been training or organizing his things or _something._ Mostly with Robbie, though. “Making sure you don’t sabotage me,” he snapped, and aimed a kick at Robbie’s ankle for good measure. “Anyway, I _was_ going to pay you, but if you’re going to be _rude…_ ”

Robbie grunted at the kick, pulling his legs up to keep them out of Sportacus’ way, and then snorted. “You’ve never paid for anything in your life.”

“No, not really,” Sportacus said, as cheerfully as he could manage despite his irritation. Bats, sticks, and rackets, that’s what he ought to be focusing on. That cabinet was _disgustingly_ out of order. He did the brief flip required to open it and started to sort through the contents. “But one of my Swiss cousins got _me_ mixed up with one of our _other_ cousins, I don’t know how, and sent me a box of Läderach truffles.”

There was a satisfying thump as Robbie’s head hit the bottom of the console. “He sent you _what?_ ”

“ _Anyway,_ I thought I’d let you have them, you eat disgusting things like that, but I suppose I’ll just give them to Ziggy.”

“You can’t give gourmet chocolates to a _six-year-old!_ ” Robbie pulled himself out from under the console just to stare at him in horror. “I mean he’s a perfectly nice six-year-old but he won’t _appreciate_ them.”

“Then you better shut up and finish fixing my airship, I haven’t got all day,” Sportacus said, not turning around. _And,_ he thought with an unaccustomed twinge of uncertainty, _I better check to make sure I threw out the receipt._

* * *

 

Sportacus never expected to receive any letters.

Frankly, he’d half-expected that the ship wouldn’t _give_ him any letters, even if he’d gotten them. He’d managed to make it recognize his voice, but it was intelligent enough to decide for itself that something wasn’t right, and it tended to sulk. Outgoing mail, sure, but there’d always been the vague hope in his mind that he didn’t receive letters from his family because the ship wasn’t letting them in, not because they weren’t being written in the first place. (Or at least he’d hoped that once upon a time. He’d long since stopped writing home, had only _ever_ really done so to rub in his success despite them.)

Getting the letter from Stephanie confirmed both that the ship _would_ give him his mail, and that previously he hadn’t been getting any.

“Dear Superhero,” he murmured to himself, struggling to decipher the messy, childish handwriting, “my name is Stephanie, and I’ve just moved to Lazy Town…”

 

_“But I **won!** ”_

_His father’s foot was tapping. That was never a good sign. “Tíu, I **saw** you trip that boy.”_

_“What does it matter? I would have won anyway!”_

_“If you were going to win anyway, you shouldn’t have cheated. We’ll return the trophy tomorrow.”_

_His mother wasn’t tapping her foot. She never did. She never looked angry. She just looked **disappointed.** “Tíu, we taught you better than that.”_

_“You’ve always been too soft on him, Guðbera.” His grandfather was sitting next to the hearth, not looking at him at **all** , yellow clothes turned golden by the firelight. “Both of you far too soft. In my day—”_

_His father had snorted. “I think we’ve heard plenty about how you did things in your day, Íþró. In fact I’m not at all sure that it wasn’t **your** gung-ho attitude that—”_

_“Oh, Níu, don’t start that again.”_

 

It had been _easy_ to find Lazy Town. Not because it was near _anything,_ it was the most rural place he’d ever seen that didn’t have actual farms, but because he’d actually already known. It felt funny, piloting the airship there; his father had always promised to take him there “when you’re older,” an impossibly far-off fantasy of eventual heroics. A little town full of easily impressed rubes, who loved singing and dancing and playing games—and giving out awards. Not that Sportacus _needed_ them to be easily impressed, he was far and away the best athlete in the world, but the thought of easy praise and a few more trophies for his collection was always nice.

He’d landed, and there was his correspondent, a little girl who wore so much pink that it was almost difficult to look at and had the kind of energetic gleam in her eye that he appreciated. She’d looked at him like he was a _superhero,_ and it was so nice that it almost made him want to _be_ one.

 _Then_ she’d run and gotten all the other children, so _they_ could come see the town’s new superhero.

And…the local mechanic?

 

_He looked like he’d just woken up, and from the way the boy in the bow-tie spoke to him, he probably **had.** He was definitely wearing a mechanic’s **jumpsuit,** although the cut and the soft grey undersuit were unusual, and some of the purple around his heavy-lidded eyes seemed to be makeup, not just sleep deprivation._

_Strangely, he looked sort of familiar—Afi Íþró had a photograph of a man in a fur coat with similar sleepy eyes, although the one time Sportacus had tried to take a better look at it Íþró had snatched it out of his hands._

_What kind of a name was **Rivet,** anyway? And he shook hands like a dead fish, and he stank of sugar and artificial flavorings, and he looked like the kind of creep who preferred reading inside to doing anything interesting._

_The kids were waiting for him to do something impressive. What impressed kids? “You ever heard the sound of a baseball breaking glass?”_

_The scrawny mechanic had **yawned.**_

* * *

 

The problem with Sportacus, Robbie thought as he and Pixel dug into the workings of Stingy’s suddenly malfunctioning electric car, was that the kids were convinced that he was some kind of superhero. They kept _writing_ to him.

He supposed he could see it. He knew perfectly well that _he_ didn’t seem much like a typical superhero—he didn’t fly (or even _run_ if he could help it), he wasn’t bulletproof or super strong or capable of shooting lasers out of his eyes, he wasn’t especially easy to get along with, and he _did_ mostly eat sweets. He did what he could to be heroic, but the children weren’t subtle creatures. They were _children._ They liked grand gestures. So they appreciated the homework help and science experiments and robotics projects and cooking lessons, and they fell all over themselves thanking him whenever he rescued them from one of Sportacus’ idiotic stunts, but the air mail tubes kept flying.

If only he could convince the kids to stop eating the fruit Sportacus gave them. They should have known better than to eat any food an elf had handled. Granted, he was guilty of that too, but he was an adult and knew how to protect himself.

 _Aha,_ there was the problem. He elbowed Pixel gently. “I think we’ve found it. Do you see what happened?”

Pixel peered into the engine. “It looks like a couple of the wires overheated and the insulation melted right off.”

“Yes, exactly. Can you see what caused it?”

“Looks like some kind of sticky stuff got into here by accident.” Pixel leaned forward, sniffed, and sighed. “Taffy. Aw, Ziggy. He gets that stuff _everywhere._ ”

“He’s six, that’s what six-year-olds are like. So do you know what we’ll have to do to fix this?”

“Well, obviously we’ve gotta get that taffy off...”

“Definitely. And then?”

Pixel frowned. “We…replace the wires, definitely, and maybe that circuit board, but maybe also put a taffy-proof housing around this section?”

“That’s a _very_ good idea, it’ll keep this from happening again. And maybe we can make some other improvements to the engine.” Robbie winked, and Pixel’s face lit up—he’d been wanting to get a better look at Stingy’s car for _ages,_ but the other boy had never been willing to let them _near_ it. “Now, I’ve got plenty of spare parts, but the taffy needs to come off first, and that’s something _you_ definitely need to know how to do, at least until Ziggy’s a little older. Do you know where your parents keep the dish soap?”

“Yeah, definitely!”

“You go grab that, then, and I’ll pull together the other tools we’ll need.”

Pixel rocketed off, and Robbie sat back on his heels, taking a moment to crack his back noisily before he started rummaging through his tool kit for wires and circuit boards and the soldering iron.

And from nearby he heard the sound of sneakers on concrete and Stephanie’s delighted shriek, and he groaned. He’d hoped she’d stop writing to Sportacus after the time she’d almost broken her arm trying to imitate a particularly dangerous skateboarding trick, but no such luck.

“Oh, good,” he muttered as the rhythmic sound of someone doing backflips got closer and a shadow fell over the car. “Yes, hello, Sportacus, what do you want?”

“Eh, you know. Trophies. Medals. Applause. Also for you to get lost, what kind of a mess is _this?_ ”

“Pixel and I are fixing Stingy’s car. Don’t worry, I don’t expect _you_ to help.” Finally Robbie looked up, suppressing another groan.

Sportacus had a football tucked under one arm (thankfully _not_ a spiked one today, although it _was_ black with red stitching) and the kind of radiant grin that only came from an absolute lack of conscience. The sun was mostly behind him; the crystal at his throat and the bits of blond hair escaping his cap glowed fabulously in the sunlight. If Robbie hadn’t known he was completely awful it would have been a very striking effect. “It’s almost cute that you think I would have _offered_ to help. Anyway, beat it, nerd, we’re going to play football.” His eyes glinted. “Unless _you_ wanna help, we could use someone to practice tackles on.”

The thought of letting Sportacus tackle him made Robbie distinctly uncomfortable in ways that he wasn’t prepared to examine. “I’d rather not, thank you.”

If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought that Sportacus looked briefly _disappointed._ Eh, probably just because he liked the thought of giving Robbie a concussion. “Suit yourself. Scram.”

“Excuse me, I have _work_ to do.” Robbie could see Pixel in the distance talking animatedly to Trixie, dish soap in hand. “This car isn’t going to fix itself, and if we don’t get the taffy out soon it’ll set hard.”

Sportacus rolled his eyes and reached into his pocket.

Robbie flinched instinctively, and then straightened up, frowning. The logo on the little paper-wrapped object looked…familiar. “Is…is that a _champagne truffle?_ ”

“Is it? You’d know better than me. Either you take it and go away or I knock you out and dump you back in your rat hole myself.”

 _Where in the world would he have **gotten** one of…I… **no.**_ He raised an eyebrow. “Those Swiss cousins of yours must have terrible memories, I thought you were going to write to them and tell them to stop sending you sweets.”

Sportacus turned _bright red._ “ _Look,_ you little—I’m not even talking to you anymore.” He tossed the truffle into Robbie’s lap and stalked off, snapping at the children as he passed them.

Pixel came over while Robbie was still staring at Sportacus’ retreating back. “Um. I got the dish soap.” He blushed a little. “Trixie wants me to play football with them.”

Talking to Pixel was easier. Pixel was a smart kid, not a dangerous menace. “Why don’t you go play football,” Robbie said, with a smile that he _mostly_ felt. “As long as I get the taffy off now, we can do the rest later. I’m sure by then Ziggy will have gotten more taffy all over something _else,_ so we’ll have that demonstration then.”

Pixel relaxed visibly, glancing back at where Trixie was waiting for him. “Thank you, Robbie. I promise I’ll come back over as soon as we’re done.”

“Actually, I think I’ll come watch you play once this is clean, make sure nobody gets hurt.” Robbie held out his fist, and Pixel grinned, bumped knuckles with him, and ran off to Trixie.

Once the kids were out of sight, Robbie got the taffy cleaned out of the car, washed his hands, and pulled the paper off the truffle, biting into it with a contented sigh. It was, without a doubt, one of the best sweets he’d had in at least a year.

Apart from the box of truffles _last_ week. The one Sportacus had gotten from those Swiss cousins by accident and _given_ him.

As Robbie sucked the last traces of cocoa powder off his fingers, he began to suspect that Sportacus didn’t _have_ any Swiss cousins. Which was…worrying.

* * *

 

Sportacus was an exhaustion, plain and simple. It wasn’t so much that he was _actively_ malicious—at least, not most of the time. He just didn’t _care_ about other people, or only cared when they were telling him how good he was.

He gave Robbie a heart attack at least once a week. Tightrope walking on a clothesline, his cleats tearing holes in Ms. Busybody’s good linen, Trixie perched on his shoulders shrieking with delight and about to fall and break her arm or worse. Showing Stephanie and Pixel how to play lacrosse and cackling whenever they hit a ball into someone’s car window or frightened the birds. He persuaded all the kids to ditch school once and go roller skating, but he didn’t think to teach them about braking properly, and it had taken Robbie an hour to clean up all the cuts and scrapes and Ziggy’s bloody nose. Not to _mention_ the time he’d challenged Stingy to a _race_ —Stingy in his car, Sportacus on foot, and a fence that it had taken a day for Robbie to put up and barely a minute for them to knock down.

And the _name-calling._ Nerd, creep, loser, zero, Robbie Rotten…what a child.

Robbie was sure that somewhere, deep down, Sportacus wasn’t a bad person. But even if he wasn’t a bad person, he _was_ both an obnoxious jock and a dangerous bad example, and all Robbie really wanted him to do was leave the town in peace and go be competitive and handsome somewhere else.

…go be competitive and _hazardous_ somewhere else.

That’s what he’d meant.

* * *

 

As usual, Sportacus woke with the dawn. It was going to be a warm day; the pleasant heat was already radiating through the cabin, courtesy of the solar intake panels. The air smelled faintly of apples.

And there was something _wrong_ going on.

There was _someone else_ in his _airship._

He sat up slowly, grabbing his heaviest baseball bat out from under the bed—and then dropped it, ignoring the loud clatter as it hit the floor. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Robbie Rivet didn’t even look up from the panel he’d opened in the ship’s wall. “Couldn’t sleep. Decided I’d make some improvements for you.”

Sportacus gaped. “Ok, how did you even get _up_ here? For that matter, how _long_ have you been here?”

“Not sure. Three or four hours, maybe?” There were noticeable dark circles under the taller man’s eyes. “I don’t sleep much. I called your little flying Segway thing, the frequency wasn’t very hard to hack into. _That_ was an awful ride, I don’t know how you do it. Do you always sleep fully dressed?”

“Do you always break into people’s houses at night to _watch_ them sleep?” Sportacus hopped up, snagged a hockey stick, and began to make his bed. “Because that’s creepy even for you.”

“Wasn’t watching you sleep. Just noticed in passing. Anyway, you started it.” Robbie’s tools were laid out in a size-graded arc next to him. “I’m upgrading your navigation systems, they’re at least ten years out of date. Thought you might want a safer trip the next time you feel like going to Switzerland.”

He paused in the act of opening the refrigerator. “…why would I be going to Switzerland?”

The corner of Robbie’s mouth twitched upwards. “I _knew_ you didn’t have any Swiss cousins. Why do you keep buying me chocolate?”

Sportacus’ jaw tightened for a moment, and instead of answering _that_ loaded question he just starting pulling some breakfast together and said, “When was the last time you slept?”

“What day is today?”

“How are you not _dead?_ ” He started cutting up a second apple and an additional slice of melon. “You don’t sleep enough, you eat nothing but cake and chocolate and drink soda constantly...also I don’t like you, you don’t like me, why are you upgrading my navigation systems.”

Robbie stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. “Kobold. Father’s side. I don’t _trust_ you, that doesn’t mean I don’t _like_ you.”

Sportacus felt the tips of his ears going hot. “You can’t possibly be a kobold, you’re six foot two.”

“I take after my mother.”

“What was _she?_ ”

“Six foot six.” Another stifled yawn, and then Robbie closed the panel and started to pack away his tools. “Anyway, you’re all set, I’ll go now.”

Frustrated, Sportacus shifted to block Robbie’s exit and shoved the second plate of cut fruit into his hand. “Sit back down and eat something, you idiot, if you try to leave by yourself in that condition you’ll just hurt yourself and _I’m_ not carrying you.”

Robbie stared at him blearily, then at the plate, then at him again, and allowed Sportacus to chivvy him over to the bed. Sportacus stood over him as he ate, arms folded, tapping his foot angrily, until every piece of fruit had been eaten.

“Now _sleep,_ ” he growled, snatching the empty plate out of Robbie’s hands.

“Why should I trust—” and Robbie interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn.

Sportacus tossed the plate with precision into the dishwashing hopper. “Shut up and go to sleep, if you give yourself brain damage from sleep deprivation then who’s going to do maintenance on my airship?”

He waited irritably for a response that didn’t come. Robbie had already fallen asleep, sprawled in an undignified fashion on a bed that was _definitely_ too short for him.

Simultaneously frustrated and relieved, Sportacus sat down next to the bed. After a moment, though, the stillness was too much, and he started to do push-ups instead. Then one-armed push-ups. Then on one arm _and_ one leg. By the time he’d started doing handstand push-ups his crystal was burning at his throat, its light flickering smugly on the airship walls.

“Oh, shut up,” he said to it. “Don’t you start too.”

* * *

 

Robbie Rivet trying to run him out of town _bothered_ him, and Sportacus wasn’t sure why. Other than the obvious _how can he want me gone, I’m perfect,_ there was something else, something that got under his skin and made him grit his teeth.

It took three months for him to figure out what the problem was—three months of Rivet yawning and sighing and looking bored and paying more attention to kids and cats and broken windows than to him. The problem was, he _could_ pay more attention to them than to him. He wasn’t ever _impressed._ Nobody had ever failed to be impressed by Sportacus. Sometimes they’d also been terrified, or angry, but they were always impressed.

Rivet just treated him like a dangerous nuisance. Which…wasn’t _untrue,_ he supposed, but it was definitely _inaccurate._ He was only a nuisance to _Rivet._ The _kids_ all thought he was amazing. So did Ms. Busybody and the mayor, when they weren’t shrieking their fool heads off.

If Rivet was just going to go around being unimpressed with him all the time, clearly that meant Sportacus hadn’t done the right things to _make_ him impressed. Which honestly just seemed like a challenge, and Sportacus never turned down a chance to win something.


	2. Letters From Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, sometimes what you need to do is write home to your mother.

Robbie woke up briefly when he heard Pixel saying, “What did you _do_ to him?”

He was too tired to say anything in response, even to open his eyes, until he realized that he wasn’t in his chair _or_ on any of the benches in the park. Someone was carrying him cradled in their arms, his head drooping against their shoulder.

Sportacus was saying, “I didn’t _do_ anything to him. He was doing some repairs for me and he fell asleep afterward,” and it was _very_ audible because _Sportacus was carrying him._ And hadn’t apparently dropped him or “accidentally” knocked his head on something or anything like that.

With some difficulty, Robbie roused himself enough to open one eye and say, “It’s fine, Pixel. I was—” a jaw-cracking yawn, “I was just fixing some of the navigation systems. Took pictures. I’ll show you later once I’ve gotten some sleep.”

Pixel looked dubious. “Well…ok. If you say so. I _would_ like to see that.” And then, to Sportacus, “Look, if you _drop_ him or something, I’ll—”

Sportacus snorted. “You’ll _what?_ ”

“I don’t _know,_ I’ll do something really bad.”

Robbie yawned again. “He’s not going to hurt me, Pixel. He’s just helping me get home because I was too tired to get down from the airship by myself.”

“What good would it do me to hurt the nerd anyway?” Sportacus sounded irritated. “Look, Pixel, go play while I get this dead weight back home.”

Robbie blinked heavily and fell back asleep.

* * *

 

When he next woke, he was home, in his chair, which Sportacus had managed to extend all the way even though Robbie was fairly sure the elf didn’t even know what a recliner _was._ The fabric felt soft against his cheek, there was a blanket draped over him, and it felt so normal that he almost drifted off again. Except for the fact that Sportacus was in his house, rummaging through his refrigerator again. “Look, kobold or not, I don’t see how anyone can live on nothing but cake and candy.”

“I eat other things,” Robbie said drowsily. “Mostly take-out, though.”

“Don’t you have any _berries?_ People put those on cakes, don’t they?”

“Carton of blackberries. Should be near the back, behind the—”

“Is this _more cream?_ ” Sportacus straightened up with a carafe in hand, grinning. “You’re holding _out_ on me.” He flipped the lid up and lifted it to his mouth.

Robbie started upwards faster than he _ever_ had before. “Don’t drink that!”

Sportacus froze, the edge of the carafe already against his lip. “Why?”

“It’s got sugar in it.”

Horrified, Sportacus put the carafe onto the counter and stared at it. “What kind of a madman puts _sugar_ in perfectly good cream?”

“It’s not cream, it’s condensed milk.”

“… _condensed_ milk?”

“Yes. _Sweetened_ condensed milk. For making caramels and cake frosting.”

“That’s _foul._ ”

“Yes, well, you made me eat watermelon that hadn’t even been made into sorbet, we’re both unhappy today.” Robbie cracked his neck, his back—and the front of his jacket made a crinkling noise that it definitely wasn’t supposed to make. He frowned and looked down the collar, and suddenly remembered. Right. The other repairs. “Oh, I also repaired and upgraded your communications systems.” He pulled the stack of papers out of the inner pocket of his jacket. “Did you know that your outgoing mail slot was jammed? For a few years now, it looks like. I assume you used the telephone or something when you were ordering me all those chocolates.”

“I didn’t _order_ you any—what?” Sportacus strode over and snatched the papers from him with the hand that hadn’t already been stained purple with blackberry juice. The expression on his face as he flipped through them was complicated, somewhere between anger and regret and very genuine distress. “You’re saying these didn’t get sent? _None_ of them?”

“Not as far as I can tell, but I didn’t read them. You’d know better than I would.”

* * *

 

> _Dear Tíu,_
> 
> _I can’t tell you how happy we were to get your letter! After all these years, we were afraid that we would never hear from you again, or that something terrible had happened, but you say that it was a problem with your airship? Those things happen, I suppose, and I’m glad you were finally able to fix it._
> 
> _Anyway, we are all well here. Your Pabbi was thrilled to hear that you are in Lazy Town, and says to give young Milford his regards. Your collection of trophies is very impressive, and I hope you’ve had a lot of fun winning them. I am very concerned about your clothes. What on earth are you doing wearing all those spikes? Aren’t they dangerous when you’re playing games? And what happened to your face to give you such a scar?_
> 
> _Your friend Narfi, the one with the lovely red hair, has stopped stealing pot-scrapings and gone on a diet, and is looking very trim now. He’s started teaching arts and crafts to the children two towns over, although from the rash of sausage thefts in the area I’m worried that he’s going back to his old ways. Here’s a drawing of him and the children with the beautiful hats they made, and there’s a hat for you in the package too. He made it as soon as he found out that we’d heard from you. Perhaps you ought to write to him? He’s missed you terribly, and you did always look so happy when you were with him. I’ve also sent you some apples from the orchard, I’m worried that you’re not getting enough fresh fruit._
> 
> _Your Afi Íþró would like to know who the other man is in the drawing you sent of yourself and those delightful children. He’d especially like to know if this fellow is related to someone called “Glæpur,” of all things, which I’m sure can’t be right. I expect it’s just a case of lookalikes, but please do ask your friend or your grandfather will never stop harping on it._
> 
> _In the package there is also a bright new bow tie for that sweet little boy with the car—it’s so nice to see children so smartly dressed nowadays—and a pair of pink batting gloves for the bigger girl, who looks very sporty.  I would like to send gifts for the others as well, please tell me what sorts of things they would like._
> 
> _Write back soon, darling._
> 
> _With love,_
> 
> _Mamma_

* * *

 

“What?” Robbie didn’t look up at him. Again. The amount of time Robbie spent _not_ looking at him was unbearable. “Can this _wait,_ Sportacus? Trixie and I are trying to fix Ziggy’s wagon. Which _you_ broke, I’d like to remind you.”

“It was _awesome,_ though!” Trixie’s face was still flushed with excitement. “With the _whoosh,_ and the _ka-bang!_ I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Yes, it was very dramatic.” Robbie looked like he was going to sigh. His constant sighing was, Sportacus thought, the _most_ annoying thing about him. “But it was also very dangerous, it’s a wonder none of you were hurt.”

Sportacus turned a cartwheel, just to keep himself moving. “Can’t wait, I want to know now. Are you related to anyone named Glæpur?”

Robbie blinked. “That’s my mother’s name. Andrá Glæpur. And my grandfather is Glanni Glæpur. Where in the world did you hear that name?”

“What’s it to you?” He could _not_ know that he’d been included in Sportacus’ drawings of life in Lazy Town.

“Well, I’d sort of like to know how you—oh, no.” Robbie jumped to his feet. “Trixie, you stay right here, you can reattach that wheel by yourself, right? Stephanie, get down from there, those branches aren’t strong enough for human weight!”

Sportacus looked at where he was running to, saw a flash of pink high in the branches of a nearby tree, and grinned. “Hey, Trix, you wanna come watch? I’ve _gotta_ see this.”

* * *

 

Robbie didn’t like heights, but he loved the stars. It would have been hard _not_ to love the stars, with how little he slept most nights. Mayor Meanswell had let him set up a little observation space on top of the town hall years ago, a nice solid platform with a telescope and sturdy guardrails and enough support that even _he_ felt safe this high off the ground.

“That one’s Boötes, the Plowman,” he said.

Ziggy frowned. “I don’t _see_ it!”

“Well, they take a minute to see. The biggest star is Arcturus, right there, you remember how we looked at Arcturus last week?”

Ziggy nodded and mumbled, “Uh-huh,” but he and the other children were all fading, wrapped in their sleeping bags and drowsy after a midnight feast of moon pies and strawberry soda. “I kinda remember…”

“That’s good.” Robbie ruffled his hair. “Why don’t you get some sleep, we’ve looked at a lot of stars tonight. We’ll look at that one more next week.”

“Ok.” Ziggy yawned. “Good night, Robbie,” and he was echoed by the other kids, a sighing chorus of, “Good night, Robbie, good night, good night.”

Robbie leaned against the guardrails and tipped his head back, knowing that sleep wouldn’t be coming any time soon. At least at night he had the company of the moon and the stars, and was guaranteed to _not_ have the company of Sportacus, who for all his faults kept to (and encouraged the children to keep to) a regular sleep schedule.

A colony of bats flitted past the moon, and he waved to them, although of course they didn’t acknowledge him at all. Their faint squeaks were better than music as they swirled through the night sky, hunting for insects that would have otherwise been bothering him.

One bat trailed behind the rest and then turned towards him, and then he realized that it wasn’t a bat at all, floating with an uneven awkwardness that bats on the wing never had.

It landed on his outstretched hand, and it was a paper airplane, made of thick, mustard-yellow paper. In the creases of it he could see writing, dark and precise in deep green ink, and it was by far the strangest thing he’d ever seen. Until, that was, he remembered that whenever Sportacus wrote to the kids, the letters came by paper airplane. His were red paper, though, with black ink, and he never wrote in cursive—Robbie had never managed to figure out if it was as a courtesy to the kids, mostly too young to read cursive easily or at all, or because he didn’t know how.

Puzzled, he unfolded the yellow airplane and read it by the light of the moon.

* * *

 

“I got a letter from your grandfather.”

Sportacus choked on his mouthful of water. “You got _what?_ ”

“A letter. From your grandfather. Íþróttaálfurinn? I hope I’m saying it right, I haven’t spoken Icelandic much since I moved out of my mother’s house.” Robbie’s forehead was wrinkled in a way that _normally_ meant he was about to get very upset with Sportacus over something minor. “He asked for my grandfather’s mailing address, apparently they’re old acquaintances. I shudder to think of how, given what I know about my grandfather in his youth.”

“That’s weird.” Sportacus tried to not look _worried,_ because that would have been _weak,_ the kids would have _laughed_ at him. “Why was he writing to _you?_ You’re nobody.”

“Well, the general thrust of the letter was that if I broke your heart he’d track me down and shatter my kneecaps. He included a drawing of the specific baseball bat he’d use, and a few other explanatory sketches. It was very vivid. He’s got a lot of energy for an old man.” Robbie’s wrinkled forehead had given way to an expression of gentle puzzlement, the kind he normally directed at one of the children when they’d said something that he didn’t understand. “I didn’t realize that was even a possibility, given how much you dislike me.”

His face felt hot. It was terrible. “It’s _not._ ”

“Well, ok. Just as long as we’re both clear on that. The letter just took me by surprise. I didn’t realize you’d written to your parents about me.”

“I didn’t write to them _about you,_ you were just in a drawing.”

Robbie actually smiled. It made Sportacus feel irrationally angry. “Your family is very artistic, that’s great.”

“Well, we’re not good with cameras.” Sportacus shifted irritably from foot to foot. “Look, I’m gonna go snag my bike, I told Stephanie I’d show her some cool tricks.”

Robbie’s eyes went wide. “What? What kind of cool tricks? You’re going to jump off something, aren’t you, you can’t show her that, she’ll want to try it _too_ —”

* * *

 

> _Little Robin,_
> 
> _Your grandfather Glanni has gotten a letter in a paper airplane, if you can believe that, and has been sitting in his bedroom looking at that peculiar old sketch on the wall for two days now. He said to tell you thank you. Do you know anything about this?_
> 
> _I wish you would come home to visit. I stole some beautiful jewels that I would love to show you, and your papa has made a really ingenious device for turning caramels into gold. And gold into caramels as well! It’s very handy, I’ve sent you some of the caramels to try. I promise if you come home for a bit I’ll keep Afi and Papa from bothering you too much about joining the family business, I know how much that bothers you._
> 
> _Share some of the caramels with Ziggy, I’m sure he’ll like them. Your papa has also sent blueprints for an ingenious little wind-up toy for Pixel to make—a Wenzel Hütchen original, just for him—and there’s a new slingshot for Trixie, it should be much more accurate._
> 
> _Love,_
> 
> _Your mama_


	3. Winter Wonderland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head. It's awkward and painful but everyone is probably better for it.

“Sportacus really wants to impress you,” Stephanie said matter-of-factly as she was lacing up her ice skates.

“I’m sure he does,” Robbie said absently. He didn’t plan on skating; he wasn’t good at it to begin with, didn’t have the balance for it, and it was much nicer to sit on the bench next to the frozen lake with a bag of cherry sours and watch the kids play. Besides, someone needed to stay with the first aid kit. “He wants to impress everyone.”

“No, like, he _really_ wants to impress you. I heard him say so. I don’t think he knew I was listening.” She brushed dirt off her toes and pulled the laces tight. “He talks about you a _lot_ when he doesn’t think anyone’s listening.”

“I—he what?”

In the middle of the lake, Sportacus was doing the kind of skating you normally only saw in the Olympics, spinning and leaping and flipping like a dancer. He wasn’t being especially careful about the kids, who were skating slow figure-eights and clapping and cheering at every trick. Nobody had gotten hurt yet, but Robbie was sure it was only a matter of time.

“I don’t think he really hates you, I think he’s just cranky because you don’t think he’s as cool as we do.” She was on her feet now, steadying herself on the ice with a small hand on his shoulder, and she didn’t look like she thought she was saying something strange at all. “Actually I think he kinda likes you.”

“You think he _what?_ ”

But there wasn’t any time to be baffled by Stephanie’s wild ideas, because there was shouting from across the ice and Robbie looked up expecting the worst. A broken arm, a gash from a skate blade, a hole in the ice…

…Sportacus’ arms pinwheeling wildly as he fell on his face…

Stephanie shrieked, “Oh no! Sportacus! Are you ok?” and zipped off across the ice.

Robbie knew he really ought to get up and make his way out onto the lake to check, but he couldn’t quite make himself stand up. A little bubble of laughter had grown in his stomach and begun to work its way up his throat, threatening to burst forth, and he really didn’t want the kids to see him laughing at someone else’s misfortune. It was bad enough that he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

Sportacus was picking himself up, apparently uninjured in everything except his dignity—but he did have a lot of dignity to injure. He was _covered_ in snow. It clung to his scarf, his jacket, the knees of his pants, his hat, his mustache, even his goggles, although they were clear enough that he’d obviously noticed Robbie at the edge of the pond, hand over his mouth, eyes bright. He brushed himself off ostentatiously. “I _meant_ to do that. Obviously. It was a controlled fall.”

“Are you sure?” Stephanie sounded worried. “It looked like it hurt.”

“I’m perfectly fine.” Sportacus wasn’t looking at her, he was glaring at Robbie.

Robbie let out a choked giggle.

Sportacus turned bright red and angrily smoothed the snow off his mustache.

Finally, unable to stop himself, Robbie let out a howl, arms wrapped around his stomach as the glee made him double over. He hadn’t laughed so hard in ages, _years_ maybe, but now he was cackling in a way that his mother and grandfather would have been proud of, tears streaming from his eyes, barely feeling the cold through his laughter.

Sportacus huffed loudly, and it sounded like he was trying to say several things at one, but all that managed to come out was an indignant and undignified squawk. Another huff, and then, “Well, I think I’ll just be heading back to my airship now, I have. Letters to write.”

The children let out a chorus of protest, but he was already skating away, and Robbie was still breathless with laughter on the bench.

* * *

 

Robbie had laughed at him.

_Robbie had looked…cute._

Laughter! Out loud! In front of people! In front of _children!_ Who would now think that it was all right to laugh at him!

_They’d never laugh at him, they were perfectly good kids who were dead convinced that he was a superhero and could do no wrong._

He had been doing pull-ups for half an hour. His arms were actually starting to ache, which never happened normally, but this time it was good, because it distracted him from the memory of _Robbie Rivet laughing at him._ Moreover, it helped him distract himself from the fact that the “at him” part was seeming less and less important compared to the mental image of the man himself, pink-cheeked and shaking with delight.

No. This couldn’t be happening to him. Rivet was a _nerd._ He didn’t exercise, he barely slept, he ate nothing but cakes and candy and fast food, he was more interested in _robots_ and _science_ than a decent game of soccer, he was always trying to shut things down just as they got fun, he was scrawny and clumsy and he always had dark circles under his eyes…and a nice laugh and a beautiful voice…and…

This was terrible.

He flipped off the pull-up bar and snapped, “Table!” at the computer, scribbling off a letter to his grandfather as quickly as he could without making it illegible.

> _How did you KNOW??? And could you maybe have told me first? —Tíu_

The reply came back in barely twenty minutes.

> _You have a lot more in common with me than with your father, boy. Meaning I damn well knew, and no. — Í_
> 
> _P.S. He seems nice, in sort of a weedy intellectual way. Better than that Narfi. Bring him home to meet your mother, she misses you._

None of that was helpful. He sent back a note to that effect and then decided to do squats until it was time to have dinner. Maybe if he did enough squats he’d pass out—he’d already _tripped_ today, anything could happen at this point. If he passed out then he wouldn’t have to think about _liking Robbie Rivet._

And then the crystal at his throat let out an ear-piercing shriek and started to burn hot against his skin. It had never done that before. It had beeped once in a while, years ago, before he’d damaged it beyond recognition, but it had never _screamed_ at him. Which almost certainly meant that something was hideously wrong with it.

He was going to have to talk to Rivet about it, wasn’t he? He was the only _technician_ around, and Sportacus wasn’t going to fix the thing himself.

Groaning, he grabbed his scarf from the hook and went to lower the ladder.

* * *

 

Sportacus had stormed off, but there was still a good hour of daylight before the children had to go in for dinner, so they stayed out playing games among themselves while Robbie watched them from the bench. It seemed that Trixie knew every variation of Tag that had ever existed, and for a while the lake was filled with the sound of shouting and laughter and animal noises as they slid around on the ice. There were a few fights—Stingy wanting to show off his skating tricks, Ziggy losing his balance—but mostly it was a fairly congenial afternoon.

The bag of cherry sours ran out. Robbie’s eyelids drooped, although the noise the children made kept him awake, and they did occasionally shout for him to look at some trick they were doing. It wouldn’t have been wise to fall asleep in the cold anyway.

“Children!”

He started upright.

Ms. Busybody was standing at his elbow, beaming. “Children, it’s dinnertime, your families are looking for you! Hello, Mr. Rivet, they haven’t been too much trouble, have they?”

“No, of course not.” He held back a yawn. “They’re wonderful children, you know I never mind watching them.”

“That’s so _sweet_ of you. You won’t come over for dinner, will you? You _know_ I have dinner with Milford on Fridays, and he’s made a roast chicken tonight and I’m _sure_ there’s too much for just the three of us to eat.”

“Thank you, Bessie, but I don’t think I can impose tonight, I promised Mr. Spendthrift that I’d take a look at the security systems that he’s using at the savings and loan and I get my best work done at nighttime.”

“Well, all right.” She patted him on the shoulder. “But I’ll save you a plate if you do decide to come by.”

The kids were reaching the shore—Pixel was already perched on the other end of the bench from Robbie, pulling off his skates and putting his snow boots back on—when Ziggy let out a shriek of, “Wait, my lollipop!” and rocketed back off towards the center of the lake.

Stephanie started to turn so quickly that she almost fell. “Ziggy, you’re not supposed to go _out_ there by yourself!”

Robbie sighed and reached down to flick a switch on his boots, changing the soles to something with a little more grip. “I’ll go get him, Stephanie. You put your boots on, he’ll be right back safe and sound.” He clumped over the surface of the lake, unsteady even with the hooks in his boots, towards where Ziggy was crouched trying to retrieve his lollipop.

It had, of course, frozen; Ziggy’s futile tugging first failed to loosen it and then knocked him down, and after a minute he sat down on the ice and began to let out huge, snuffling sobs.

It felt like it took ages to get there. Robbie winced as he knelt, both from the chill and from the aches in his knees. “Hey, hey. It’s all right, Ziggy. We’ll get your lollipop and then you’ll go in and have dinner.”

“It’s _stuck._ ” Ziggy sniffed. “I can’t get it _up._ ”

“That’s just because it’s very cold. All we need is the right tool.” Robbie pulled a multi-tool out of his pocket and flipped out one of the sturdier blades. “See, I’m going to pry it up like this and it’ll be fine.” It hadn’t even stuck very hard. “ _There_ we go. But don’t eat it, you’ve all been skating all over this spot. Get your mother to wash it off first, at least.”

“But, but what if I have a little nibble before I get home, huh?”

“No nibbling. You don’t want to get sick, do you? Now hold my hand and we’ll go back to where the other kids are.”

They were about halfway back to the shore when Robbie heard the cracking noise and thought, _Oh, good._

“Ziggy, how’s your balance? Do you think you can get all the way to the others by yourself?”

Ziggy frowned up at him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Of _course_ I am.” _Smile. Keep smiling. If you let him know you’re scared, **he’ll** get scared._ “But it would be good practice for you.” _He needs to be off the ice immediately, and he’s much lighter than me._

“Ok! Practice! That’s a good idea!” Ziggy took a moment to steady himself and then skated away. “See, I’m a really good skater, what do you think, huh?”

“You look great! That’s great!” _One foot at a time. Move slowly. Keep an eye out for cracks. You’re not going to fall._ “I’ll be there in a moment!”

Left foot. Right foot. He wasn’t even _that_ far from the shore when he heard another crack and looked down to see that he’d walked across a place where reeds grew in the summer. The ice was riddled with bubbles where the reeds had frozen in, weak already and probably getting weaker by the second. His boots probably didn’t help, either; on thick ice they were useful, but on a spot like this the hooks digging in caused more harm than good.

“Well, this is terrible,” he said, quietly, as the ice gave way under his feet.

* * *

 

Sportacus got to the lake just in time to see Robbie fall through the ice, and swore with such sulfurous heat that Ms. Busybody actually covered her mouth in shock.

* * *

 

Robbie woke up and couldn’t move.

Actually, he realized after a moment, he was fairly sure he’d been awake for some time. He could remember things—movement, voices, lights—but not very clearly, as if he’d been experiencing them from very far away. He remembered falling into the ice, and the children shouting, and someone cursing with _great_ vigor, but after that everything was very vague. The inability to move _definitely_ concerned him.

Another moment of bleary fumbling into consciousness and he realized that he couldn’t move because he’d been wrapped in blankets. Quite a few of them, in fact, several of which he recognized. His own, of course, but he could also see the pink winter quilt from Stephanie’s bed, a fleece printed with characters from Pixel’s favorite video game, Ziggy’s precious baby blanket. The awkward patchwork blanket Trixie had crocheted herself was wrapped around his feet—he even had Stingy’s fairly sumptuous green comforter, which nobody ever got to touch.

He wasn’t dressed. His own blanket being the bottom layer of this strange cocoon was a relief, it would have been terribly awkward to be naked wrapped in a blanket belonging to one of the children. He also wasn’t in his own _house,_ which was much stranger. The bed was much bigger than his.

It took him a few more minutes to figure out. He’d fixed that radiator last month. “Trixie’s mother’s bedroom?”

“You’re an _idiot._ ”

He blinked. “Sportacus, what are you doing in Trixie’s mother’s bedroom?”

“You’re lucky she’s out of town right now, I wasn’t even sure you _owned_ a bed.” Sportacus was next to the bed, doing push-ups and _fuming._ As Robbie watched, puzzled, he got up and went over to the dresser, where Pixel’s thermos inexplicably sat in between a jewelry box and a stack of old mail.

“Why am _I_ in Ms. Ts'ai’s bedroom? Where’s Trixie?”

“ _Trixie_ is staying over with Stephanie for the weekend, which I’m _pretty_ sure you knew. Now shut up and drink this.” Sportacus held the thermos up to his lips.

Robbie took a sip and wrinkled his nose. “What _is_ this?”

“Warm milk. With honey. If you don’t drink it I’ll break your nose.”

The look on Sportacus’ face said that this was not an idle threat, so Robbie drank down the whole thermos, slowly, hating it all the while. It filled his stomach with a pleasant warmth that spread through up through his chest and out to his arms and legs, but he made a face when he was finished anyway. “That was _foul._ You haven’t answered my first question.”

“You’re in Trixie’s mother’s bedroom because _she’s_ out of town and it was the closest house I could get you to.” Sportacus produced another thermos, this one covered in images of piggy banks. “Drink it.”

“What is—”

“It’s chicken soup, shut up and drink it, breaking your nose is still an option.”

The chicken soup was, if anything, marginally _worse_ than the warm milk, which had at least been sweet. “Why are you force-feeding me these things?”

“So you don’t _die._ You really _are_ an idiot.”

Robbie yawned painfully. “I’ll have you know I’m a genius.”

“Shut up. Lucky for you the kids like you or I’d have just let you freeze to death. They’re the ones who brought all the blankets, you know Pixel can get into your house?”

“Of _course_ he can get into my house, there are entrances all over Lazy Town.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Sportacus this angry. It was impressive, especially given how frequently he was angry to a normal, _sane_ degree. “Did you take my clothes? Where are they?”

“They’re in the laundry.” Sportacus sat down on the bed next to him, on top of the edge of his blanket cocoon, effectively trapping him there, and produced yet _another_ thermos. It was bright pink. He set it on the bedside table. “More milk. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not gonna make you drink it yet, it’s for later.”

Robbie shook his head, hoping to clear it. “Do I remember you…breathing in my face?”

“Yes. Making you breathe in warm air. It’s good for you.” Every question seemed to making Sportacus even angrier, and it was only then that Robbie realized that _he wasn’t wearing his normal clothes._ No spikes, no collar, no blood red—he seemed to be wearing an outfit that he’d gotten from Pixel’s father, a green sweater too tight in the chest and too long in the sleeves and sweatpants that, again, strained at the thighs but were bunched up around his ankles. The only pieces of his own clothes he still had on were the little red crystal and his cap, and even that was knocked askew so that one pointed ear poked out. “ _You’re_ the one who’s always stitching the kids up when they do something dumb, don’t you know how to treat hypothermia?”

“I thought.” Robbie blushed faintly. “I thought you were supposed to get in bed with the other person, isn’t that the preferred method?”

“What, when I’m also soaking? You want us both to die? Idiot.”

Robbie tried to smile. “Normally you’re more creative when you’re insulting me, you’ve called me an idiot three times already.”

“Normally I’m not this angry at you.” Sportacus’ mustache quivered furiously. “You almost died.”

“You’ve never given the impression that you’d mind me dying. Anyway, I keep waking up and seeing you, it’s very peculiar.” Robbie yawned again. “This is very comfortable. Glad to see that radiator’s still working nicely.”

“Going to have to _move in_ with you to keep you from getting yourself killed,” Sportacus grumbled, leaning his head on Robbie’s shoulder and closing his eyes. “You need a _minder._ Now shut up and go to sleep, you’ve already thrown off my regular sleep schedule.”

Robbie went very still.

Sportacus leaning on his shoulder gave him the same feeling he suspected he’d have if he was approached by a growling tiger which, instead of eating him, decided for no apparent reason to curl up in his lap like a housecat. It was extremely pleasant but also vaguely terrifying.

“What’s…what’s happening here?” he asked, very quietly.

“I should think that’s obvious,” Sportacus said, not opening his eyes. “And if you make me say it I’ll hit you.”

Robbie slowly, gingerly shifted so that his cheek rested against the top of Sportacus’ head. “I don’t think that’s a healthy basis for…for a relationship. I’m not saying I _object_ to a relationship, but I think starting with threats to hit me isn’t good. I’m fairly sure that’s not how those are supposed to work.”

“Maybe I’ll just be really upset with you, then.” Sportacus shifted slightly closer. “Now _shut up,_ nerd, we can work out details in the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Share and enjoy, and please leave me a comment if you enjoyed the story! ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> **A Brief Note on Names:**
> 
>  
> 
> Most of the names that come up in this story are already established in one version of the canon or another. Of the ones that aren't, most of them are just names, the meanings of which are unimportant--Guðbera is Sportacus' mother, Wenzel Hütchen is Robbie's father, and so on.
> 
> Níu & Tíu, however--the names used to refer to Sportacuses senior and junior--are pet names, and mean "Nine" and "Ten" respectively.


End file.
